Today’s ‘tree’ is heather. We drank heather ale last night, and read the legend of the little people of Scotland who kept it secret for so long (where did the Fraoch brewers get the recipe from?). This afternoon, I am trying to convince people that, if you’re the size of a bee, heather can be really quite a big tree!
This morning, I achieved what poets always hope for.
Since I took up residence, I’ve been perplexed, then fascinated, by how the water works in the garden, and finally I got permission to press the buttons.
After a tantalising pause, a stretch of un-time of no water falling, other than in my mind, waiting, watching the flowers growing, the pond stagnating, eventually faint gurgles in the plumbing, then a cough, a splutter, and finally, with the smell of a tropical toilet flush from an algae-rich cistern, a gush of water. So there it is, white water frothing under the cascade. (The video is on the walking with poets Facebook page.)
Some little people seem to get the heather honey thing…